Southern Exposure - 18th August 1995
After the ecstatic excesses of the above mentioned night, it was once again that time of the month. To do our oft performed “thick and tired” routine that we unfortunately choose to practice without fail when we appear in Maidstone. Maybe if we paced ourselves a little better, perhaps going to bed at some point between the two days, this phenomenon wouldn’t be so bloody predictable.
With Swishy Eyesaw following, and Robin TwatterBoy (I'm a girlfriend stealing cunt) and chum Paul following them following us we made our way to Maidstone, and yes, went wrong at that same road we always go wrong at. Probably because we’re so tired. Or thick.
There were two big, and very welcome surprises awaiting us at the club. One hundred gallons of sweaty water had been sucked out of the walls and ceiling of the upstairs room. In one fell swoop eliminating the aroma of piss-soaked carpet, that is so conducive to that elusive clubbing experience. Although this meant that we no longer needed our newly purchased sacks of joss-sticks, we did not mind. I felt considerably less tired.
Surprise number two though, was the absolute clincher. Standing towering in one corner, looking impressively bulky and bass laden, stood a magical sight, that drew gasps of relief from the assembled tVC’ers. A big fuck off rig, of most solid and bodacious dimensions, sporting that reassuring EV badge of excellence. It kicked into life, first time, as seven and a half K’s of arse kicking power thumped resoundingly round the room. Excellent. Excellent. Excellent. And, just one more, excellent.
With a spring in our collective step our yawns banished we got to work, watching Swishy carry five TV’s up two flights of stairs and assemble them in record breaking time. Robin and Paul got to work erecting their portion of the visual feast to-be. Clinging teeth-clenchingly, and very sweatily to wobbly tables their equipment was whipped out and on display with as much haste as could be mustered when you are drowning in sweat. It was already extremely hot. The bar-steward muttered, rather ominously we thought, “You wait. You should have seen how hot it was here last week. It was like a furnace”. We don’t care.
Nick was first on. The headphones hung in tatters after the aural activities witnessed the previous night. Oz helpfully switched off the monitors, as Nick wondered why it felt like she’d never done this before and tried to line up beats, whilst listening to the speakers a mere 60 foot away. Who mentioned time delay? The problem of time delay was experienced by everyone in the room as Nick tried to master the mechanics. Things improved considerably, however, when Jasper strolled in, pony tail arranged neatly in an open splay upon his shoulder and, switched the monitors on. Pouting in best DJ fashion (London circa ‘95) Jasp quickly took control of proceedings as he slapped out his cherished 12” for the delectation of the assembled throng.
The room, it had to be admitted, looked and sounded rather spectacular. Pitch black apart from Swishy’s TV treats, and Robin’s visual flashes, both complimenting perfectly the pounding PA. With no stale urine smell to assault ones nostrils, it most definitely felt and looked an altogether different room from that we last experienced. And with small handfuls of our hardcore chums coming, we relished their joyful surprise on seeing it’s most pleasant transformation. We positively strutted round the room. No longer the tVC reps of old who’d sat rather lumpily, while matchsticks propped open our rheumy eyes. We danced and laughed, soaking up the mellow ambience of the room.
Jasper warmed the pulsating throng nicely, rearranging his pony tail for maximum effect as he played his last tune. Oz and Timo, not satiated by their very public playing the night before, waited eagerly for the chance to repeat their joys of the night before. Like seasoned pro’s they slipped readily and easily, into their stride and did their stuff. Spontaneous whistles and cheers erupted from the dance floor as we joined in collective celebration of the new-look, new-feel, new-smell room.
It was too hot for me to dance. Just standing up made your clothes stick sweatily (and rather unflatteringly ) to ones buttocks (mrow). But the new rig made such a difference to our listening pleasure, we could happily sit 60 foot away from the nearest speaker, supping beer, tapping feet, and still have to shout extremely loudly to one another to be heard. It was great. A generally lively time was had by one and all, the heat failing to stop the more robust members in their incessant pursuit of pleasure. Jasper danced! Yes, we kid you not! Robin talked, Swishy swished in a most glamorous fashion. Sara pumped, Claire and Mia talked of fan clubs, tee-shirt designs and groupie-dom, Dougy told Jasper off for putting in danger his newly repaired back whilst Oz talked profusely ,even whilst on the job, wearing out a few unsuspecting sets of ears in the process. Meanwhile Paul listened, escaped briefly, then listened again. Robin talked. Nick didn’t yawn, Gone pranced, Timo beamed and we all thought how lucky we were to have two top nights out in as many nights. We also smiled expectantly when we thought of the fun to be had in 24 hours time in the bosom of our mad Dover compadres. I think a few gallons of sweaty water has been reabsorbed back into the walls, and ceiling though......